to get all those Americans out of Vietnam.
"WE SHOULD SEND HESTER INSTEAD," he used to say. "HESTER SHOULD DRINK HER WAY THROUGH NORTH VIETNAM," Owen would say. "WE SHOULD SEND HESTER TO HANOI," he told me. "HESTER, I'VE GOT A GREAT IDEA," Owen said to her. "WHY DON'T YOU GO THROW UP ON HANOI INSTEAD?"
On New Year's Eve, 1966, there were 385,300 U.S. military personnel in Vietnam; 6,644 had been killed in action. Hester and Owen and I weren't together for New Year's Eve that year. I watched the television at 80 Front Street by myself. Somewhere, I was sure, Hester was throwing up; but I didn't know where. In '67, there were 485,600 Americans in Vietnam; 16,021 had been killed there. I watched television at 80 Front Street, alone again. I'd had a little too much to drink myself; I was trying to remember when Grandmother had purchased a color television set, but I couldn't. I'd had enough to drink so that I was sick in the rose garden; it was cold enough to make me hope, for Hester's sake, that she was throwing up in a warmer climate.
Owen was in a warmer climate.
I don't remember where I was or what I did for New Year's Eve in 1968. There were 536,100 U.S. military personnel in Vietnam; that was still about 10,000 short of what our peak number would be. Only 30,610 Americans had been killed in action, about 16,000 short of the number of Americans who would die there. Wherever I was for New Year's Eve, 1968, I'm sure I was drunk and throwing up; wherever Hester was, I'm sure she was drunk and throwing up, too.
As I've said, Owen didn't show me what he wrote in his diary; it was much later--after everything, after almost everything--when I saw what he'd written there. There is one particular entry I wish I could have read when he wrote it; it is a very early entry, not far from his excited optimism following Kennedy's inauguration, not all that far from his thanking my grandmother for the gift of the diary and his announced intention to make her proud of him. This entry strikes me as important; it is dated January 1, 1962, and it reads as follows:
I know three things. I know that my voice doesn't change, and I know when I'm going to die. I wish I knew why my voice never changes, I wish I knew how I was going to die; but God has allowed me to know more than most people know--so I'm not complaining. The third thing I know is that I am God's instrument; I have faith that God will let me know what I'm supposed to do, and when I'm supposed to do it. Happy New Year!
That was the January of our senior year at Gravesend Academy; if I had understood then that this was his fatalistic acceptance of what he "knew," I could have better understood why he behaved as he did--when the world appeared to turn against him, and he hardly raised a hand in his own defense.
We were hanging around the editorial offices of The Grave--that year The Voice was also editor-in-chief--when a totally unlikable senior named Larry Lish told Owen and me that President Kennedy was "diddling" Marilyn Monroe.
Larry Lish--Herbert Lawrence Lish, Jr. (his father was the movie producer Herb Lish)--was arguably Gravesend's most cynical and decadent student. In his junior year, he'd gotten a town girl pregnant, and his mother--only recently divorced from his father--had so skillfully and swiftly arranged for the girl's abortion that not even Owen and I knew who the girl was; Larry Lish had spoiled a lot of girls' good times. His mother was said to be ready to fly his girlfriends to Sweden at the drop of a hat; it was rumored that she accompanied the girls, too--just to make sure they went through with it. And after these return trips from Sweden, the girls never wanted to see Larry again. He was a charming sociopath, the kind of creep who makes a good first impression on those poor, sad people who are dazzled by top-drawer accents and custom-made dress shirts.
He was witty--even Owen was impressed by Lish's editorial cleverness for The Grave--and he was cordially loathed by students and faculty alike; I say "cordially," in the case of the students, because no one would have refused an invitation to one of his father's or his mother's parties. In the case of the faculty, they exercised a "cordial" hatred of Lish because his father was so famous that many faculty members were afraid of him--and Lish's mother, the divorcee, was a beauty and a whorish flirt. I'm sure that some of the faculty lived for the glimpse they might get of her on Parents' Day; many of the students felt that way about Larry Lish's mother, too.
Owen and I had never been invited to one of Mr. or Mrs. Lish's parties; New Hampshire natives are not regularly within striking distance of New York City--not to mention Beverly Hills. Herb Lish lived in Beverly Hills; those were Hollywood parties, and Larry Lish's Gravesend acquaintances who were fortunate enough to come from the Los Angeles area claimed to have met actual "starlets" at those lavish affairs.
Mrs. Lish's Fifth Avenue parties were no less provocative; the seduction and intimidation of young people was an activity both Lishes enjoyed. And the New York girls--although they weren't always aspiring actresses--were reputed to "do it" with even less resistance than the marginal protestations offered by the California variety.
Mr. and Mrs. Lish, following their divorce, were in competition for young Larry's doubtful affection; they had chosen a route to his heart that was strewn with excessive partying and expensive sex. Larry divided his vacations between New York City and Beverly Hills. On both coasts, the segment of society that Mr. and Mrs. Lish "knew" was comprised of the kind of people who struck many Gravesend Academy seniors as the most fascinating people alive; Owen and I, however, had never heard of most of these people. But we had certainly heard of President John F. Kennedy; and we had certainly seen every movie that starred Marilyn Monroe.
"You know what my mother told me over the vacation?" Larry Lish asked Owen and me.
"Let me guess," I said. "She's going to buy you an airplane."
"AND WHEN YOUR FATHER HEARD ABOUT IT," said Owen Meany, "HE SAID HE'D BUY YOU A VILLA IN FRANCE--ON THE RIVIERA!"
"Not this year," Larry Lish said slyly. "My mother told me that JFK was diddling Marilyn Monroe--and countless others," he added.
"THAT IS A TRULY TASTELESS LIE!" said Owen Meany.
"It's the truth," Larry Lish said, smirking.
"SOMEONE WHO SPREADS THAT KIND OF RUMOR OUGHT TO BE IN JAIL!" Owen said.
"Can you see my mother in jail?" Lish asked. "This is no rumor. The truth is, the prez makes Ladies' Man Meany look like a virgin--the prez gets any woman he wants."
"HOW DOES YOUR MOTHER KNOW THIS?" Owen asked Lish.
"She knows all the Kennedys," Lish said, after a moderately tense silence. "And my dad knows Marilyn Monroe," he said.
"I SUPPOSE THEY 'DO IT' IN THE WHITE HOUSE?" Owen asked.
"I know they've done it in New York," Lish said. "I don't know where else they've done it--all I know is, they've been doing it for years. And when the prez isn't interested in her anymore, I hear that Bobby's going to get her."
"YOU'RE DISGUSTING!" said Owen Meany.
"The world's disgusting!" Larry Lish said cheerfully. "Do you think I'm lying?"
"YES, I DO," Owen said.
"My mother's going to pick me up and take me skiing--next weekend," Lish said. "You can ask her yourself."
Owen shrugged.
"Do you think she's lying?" Lish asked; Owen shrugged again. He hated Lish--and Lish's mother; or, at least, he hated the kind of woman he imagined Larry Lish's mother was. But Owen Meany wouldn't have called anyone's mother a liar.
"Let me tell you, Sarcasm Master," Larry Lish said. "My mother's a gossip, and she's a bitch, but she's not a liar; she doesn't have enough imagination to make anything up!"
It was one of the more painful things about our peers at Gravesend Academy; it hurt Owen and me to hear how many of our schoolmates commonly put their parents down. They took their parents' money, and they abused their parents' summer houses and weekend retreats--when their parents weren't even aware that the kids had their own keys! And they frequently spoke of their parents as if they thought their parents were trash--or, at least, ignorant beyond saving.
"DOES JACKIE KNOW ABOUT MARILYN MONROE?" Owen asked Larry Lish.
"You can ask my mother," Lish said.
The prospect of conversation with Larry Lish's mother was not relaxing to Owen Meany. He brooded all week. He avoided the editorial offices of The Grave, a hangout in which Owen was regularly king. Owen, after all, had been inspired by JFK; although the subject of the president's personal (or sexual) morality would not have dampened everyone's enthusiasm for his political ideals and his political goals, Owen Meany was not "everyone"--nor was he sophisticated enough to separate public and private morality. I doubt that Owen ever would have become "sophisticated" enough to make that separation--not even today, when it seems that the only people who are adamant in their claim that public and private morality are inseparable are those creep-evangelists who profess to "know" that God prefers capitalists to communists, and nuclear power to long hair.
Where would Owen fit in today? He was shocked that JFK--a married man!--could have been "diddling" Marilyn Monroe; not to mention "countless others." But Owen would never have claimed that he "knew" what God wanted; he always hated the sermon part of the service--of any service. He hated anyone who claimed to "know" God's opinion of current events.
Today, the fact that President Kennedy enjoyed carnal knowledge of Marilyn Monroe and "countless others"--even during his presidency--seems only moderately improper, and even stylish, in comparison to the willful secrecy and deception, and the unlawful policies, so broadly practiced by the entire Reagan administration. The idea of President Reagan getting laid, at all--by anyone!--comes only as welcome and comic relief alongside all his other mischief!
But 1962 was not today; and Owen Meany's expectations for the Kennedy administration were ripe with the hopefulness and optimism of a nineteen-year-old who desired to serve his country--to be of use. In the previous spring, the Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba had upset Owen; but although that was a disturbing error, it was not adultery.
"IF KENNEDY CAN RATIONALIZE ADULTERY, WHAT ELSE CAN HE RATIONALIZE?" Owen asked me. Then he got angry and said: "I'M FORGETTING HE'S A MACKEREL-SNAPPER! IF CATHOLICS CAN CONFESS ANYTHING, THEY CAN FORGIVE THEMSELVES ANYTHING, TOO! CATHOLICS CAN'T EVEN GET DIVORCED; MAYBE THAT'S THE PROBLEM. IT'S SICK NOT TO LET PEOPLE GET DIVORCED!"
"Look at it this way," I told him. "You're president of the United States; you're very good-looking. Countless women want to sleep with you--countless and beautiful women will do anything you ask. They'll even come to the linen-service entrance of the White House after midnight!"
"THE LINEN-SERVICE ENTRANCE?" said Owen Meany.
"You know what I mean," I said. "If you could fuck absolutely any woman you wanted to fuck, would you--or wouldn't you?"
"I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT YOUR UPBRINGING AND YOUR EDUCATION HAVE BEEN WASTED ON YOU," he said. "WHY STUDY HISTORY OR LITERATURE--NOT TO MENTION RELIGIOUS KNOWLEDGE AND SCRIPTURE AND ETHICS? WHY NOT DO ANYTHING--IF THE ONLY REASON NOT TO IS NOT TO GET CAUGHT?" he asked. "DO YOU CALL THAT MORALITY? DO YOU CALL THAT RESPONSIBLE? THE PRESIDENT IS ELECTED TO UPHOLD THE CONSTITUTION; TO PUT THAT MORE BROADLY, HE'S CHOSEN TO UPHOLD THE LAW-- HE'S NOT GIVEN A LICENSE TO OPERATE ABOVE THE LAW, HE'S SUPPOSED TO BE OUR EXAMPLE!"
Remember that? Remember then?
I remember what Owen said about "Project 100,000," too--remember that? That was a draft program outlined by the secretary of defense, Robert McNamara, in 1966. Of the first 240,000 taken into the military between 1966 and 1968, 40 percent read below sixth-grade level, 41 percent were black, 75 percent came from low-income families, 80 percent had dropped out of high school. "The poor of America have not had the opportunity to earn their fair share of this nation's abundance," Secretary McNamara said, "but they can be given an opportunity to serve in their country's defense."
That made Owen Meany hopping mad.
"DOES HE THINK HE'S DOING 'THE POOR OF AMERICA' SOME FAVOR?" Owen cried. "WHAT HE'S SAYING IS, YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE WHITE--OR A GOOD READER--TO DIE! THAT'S SOME 'OPPORTUNITY'! I'LL BET 'THE POOR OF AMERICA' ARE REALLY GOING TO BE GRATEFUL FOR THIS!"
Toronto: July 11, 1987--it's been so hot, I wish Katherine would invite me up to her family's island in Georgian Bay; but she has such a large family, I'm sure she's suffered her share of houseguests. I have fallen into a bad habit here: I buy The New York Times almost every day. I don't exactly know why I want or need to know anything more.
According to The New York Times, a new poll has revealed that most Americans believe that President Reagan is lying; what they should be asked is, Do they care?
I wrote Katherine and asked her when she was going to invite me to Georgian Bay. "When are you going to rescue me from my own bad habits?" I asked her. I wonder if you can buy The New York Times in Pointe au Baril Station; I hope not.
Larry's mother, Mitzy Lish, had honey-colored, slightly sticky-looking hair--it was coiffed in a bouffant style--and her complexion was much improved by a suntan; in the winter months, when she'd not just returned from her annual pilgrimage to Round Hill, Jamaica, her skin turned a shade sallow. Because her complexion was further wrecked by blotchiness in the extreme cold, and because her excessive smoking had ill-influenced her circulation, a weekend of winter skiing in New England--even to forward the cause of her competition for her son's affection--did not favor either Mrs. Lish's appearance or her disposition. Yet it was impossible not to see her as an attractive "older" woman; she was not quite up to President Kennedy's standards, but Mitzy Lish was a beauty by any standard Owen and I had to compare her to.
Hester's early-blooming eroticism, for example, had not been improved by her carelessness or by alcohol; even though Mrs. Lish smoked up a storm, and her amber hair was dyed (because she was graying at her roots), Mrs. Lish looked sexier than Hester.
She wore too much gold and silver for New Hampshire; in New York, I'm sure, she was certainly in vogue--but her clothes and her jewelry, and her bouffant, were more suited to the kind of hotels and cities where "evening" or formal clothes are standard. In Gravesend, she stood out; and it is hard to imagine that there was a small skiers' lodge in New Hampshire, or in Vermont, that ever could have pleased her. She had ambitions beyond the simple luxury of a private bath; she was a woman who needed room service--who wanted her first cigarette and her coffee and her New York Times before she got out of bed. And then she would need sufficient light and a proper makeup mirror, in front of which she would require a decent amount of time; she would be snappish if ever she was rushed.
Her days in New York, before lunch, consisted only of cigarettes and coffee and The New York Times--and the patient, loving task of making herself up. She was an impatient woman, but never when applying her makeup. Lunch with a fellow gossip, then; or, these days, following her divorce, with her lawyer or a potential lover. In the afternoon, she'd have her hair done or she'd do a little shopping; at the very least, she'd buy a few new magazines or see a movie. She might meet someone for a drink, later. She possessed all the up-to-date information that often passes for intelligence among people who make a daily and extensive habit of The New York Times--and the available, softer gossip--and she had oodles of time to consume all this contemporary news. She had never worked.
She took quite a lot of time for her evening bath, too, and then there was the evening makeup to apply; it irritated her to make any dinner plans that required her presence before eight o'clock--but it irritated her more to have no dinner plans. She didn't cook--not even eggs. She was too lazy to make real coffee; the instant stuff went well enough with her cigarettes and her newspaper. She would have been an early supporter of those sugar-free, diet soft drinks--because she was obsessed with losing weight (and opposed to exercise).
She blamed her troublesome complexion on her ex-husband, who had been stressful to live with; and their divorce had cut her out of California--where she preferred to spend the winter months, where it was better for her skin. She swore her pores were actually larger in New York. But she maintained the Fifth Avenue apartment with a vengeance; and included in her alimony was the expense of her annual pilgrimage to Round Hill, Jamaica--always at a time in the winter when her complexion had become intolerable to her--and a summer rental in the Hamptons (because not even Fifth Avenue was any fun in July and August). A woman of her sophistication--and used to the standard of living she'd grown accustomed to, as Herb Lish's wife and the mother of his only child--simply needed the sun and the salt air.
She would be a popular divorcee for quite a number of years; she would appear in no hurry to remarry--in fact, she'd turn down a few proposals. But, one year, she would either anticipate that her looks were going, or she would notice that her looks had gone; it would take her more and more time in front of the makeup mirror--simply to salvage what used to be there. Then she would change; she would become quite aggressive on the subject of her second marriage; she realized it was time. Pity whatever boyfriend was with her at this time; he would be blamed for leading her on--and worse, for never allowing her to develop a proper career. There was no honorable course left to him but to marry the woman he had made so dependent on him--whoever he was. She would say he was the reason she'd never stopped smoking, too; by not marrying her, he had made her too nervous to stop smoking. And her oily complexion, formerly the responsibility of her ex-husband, was now the present boyfriend's fault, too; if she was sallow, she was sallow because of him.
He was also the cause of her announced depression. Were he to leave her--were he to abandon her, to not marry her--he could at the very least assume the financial burden of maintaining her psychiatrist. Without his aggravation, after all, she would never have needed a psychiatrist.
How--you may ask--do I, or did I, "know" so much about my classmate's unfortunate mother, Mitzy Lish? I told you that Gravesend Academy students were--many of them--very sophisticated; and none of them was more "sophisticated" than Larry Lish. Larry told everyone everything he knew about his mother; imagine that! Larry thought his mother was a joke.
But in January of 1962, Owen Meany and I were terrified of Mrs. Lish. She wore a fur coat that was responsible for the death of countless small mammals, she wore sunglasses that completely concealed her opinion of Owen and m